Secrets and Shadows, page 6
Isobel wondered what events in her life had caused Marnie Donovan to be so mistrustful of her fellow human beings. She made a marked contrast to Louisa who was sunnily chattering away to her neighbours, happily confident that they would all soon become the best of friends.
Isobel had seated herself between Colonel Smithson – the only man in the room wearing a tie – and a large lady from Cornwall called Morwenna Gilbert, around whom a gentle gloom seemed to hang like a permanently temperate climate; she started to spark a little once Isobel discovered her love of gardening and displayed an encyclopedic knowledge of plants, but whenever Isobel tried to show enthusiasm about any particular species she would shake her head apologetically and murmur: ‘But I doubt if you could grow that here,’ like the response to some mournful horticultural litany.
It had been a simple but delicious meal with a choice of delicately spiced Thai chicken with rice, or a vegetarian alternative, followed by Canterbury tart and home-made ice-cream. There was cheese for anyone who wanted it and what Giles called a good but uneventful Sauvignon Blanc to drink. Everyone always enjoyed the food at Glendrochatt, which the Grants took great trouble over and of which they were justifiably proud.
At exactly quarter past eight, Giles, who was good at keeping an unobtrusive eye on the clock, had caught Isobel’s eye and brought the meal to a close by tapping on his glass. ‘I expect you’d all like a chance to collect your notebooks and pencils,’ he said, smiling at his motley assortment of guests, ‘so let’s meet in the conference room in quarter of an hour when it will give me great pleasure to introduce Catherine Hickman, our wonderful tutor for this week. Some of you may have heard Catherine read her poetry on the radio, or on that literary guessing game “Who Wrote That?”, but I assure you that by Saturday morning she will also have discovered talents in all of you that you didn’t know you possessed. Oh, by the way – I’m afraid this is a no-smoking house, but if any of you are longing for a cigarette you’ve just got time to go and have one in the garden – and for once you can do it in comfort because our unreliable Scottish weather is in a benevolent mood. See you all shortly.’
‘Thank God for that,’ muttered the tall man who walked with a noticeable limp and had been sitting on Marnie Donovan’s other side. He’d made well-mannered efforts to engage her in conversation, but had received no more response than Giles had. ‘Would you excuse me,’ he asked her now, ‘but I don’t think I can hold out for much longer without having a smoke – pathetic, I know,’ and he went off purposefully towards the front door where he stood on the steps gasping down restorative lungfuls of nicotine as though inhaling oxygen at a high altitude.
Earlier, when they had all gathered for a drink before dinner, Louisa, not one to suffer from social inhibitions, had made a beeline in his direction as soon as he had appeared, hoping to sit next to him at dinner. The moment she had seen him she had recognised him and remembered vividly the occasion when they had met before . . . what was his name? Christopher something? She had met him with Adam. Adam would know all about him – she must remember to ask him. At the thought of Adam she felt a pang of guilt because she recollected only too well that at their one meeting she had thought this man had all the glamour and edge – a faint but exciting whiff of danger – that Adam lacked. Perhaps the seed of her subsequent restlessness and disenchantment had even been sewn then? With his dark good looks and casual elegance, he stuck out in the present company like a particularly well-manicured thumb, but though he was of a type familiar to Louisa, it struck her that something about him had changed since their last meeting. She thought he now had a closed-in, almost wary, look that sat surprisingly with his otherwise sophisticated appearance.
‘I’m Louisa Forrester,’ she had said. ‘I’m hopeless at remembering names but I think we’ve met before, haven’t we?’
He had agreed immediately, though he looked taken aback at the sight of her.
‘Yes indeed. Of course I remember you too. Did we meet at the opera or something like that? Anyway, what a surprise to see you again here,’ and he smiled politely, though in reality Louisa thought that for a brief moment he had looked more alarmed than pleased and wondered why this should be so. Perhaps he was diffident about his writing ambitions and didn’t want any mutual acquaintances they might share to find out about them – though she didn’t really think he looked the type to lack self-confidence.
‘We’ll no doubt get plenty of chances to talk more later,’ he had said smoothly and turned away from her to continue talking to the ponderous gardening lady to whom he’d been speaking before Louisa approached. Attractive men did not usually respond to Louisa in such an apparently lukewarm way and she was intrigued and challenged. Oh well, his loss, she thought wryly, amused at herself for feeling disappointed at his reaction – and he’s right of course: there’s lots of time to find out more about everyone. She decided that she must ask Giles and Isobel about him, but accepted it cheerfully enough when Isobel had not placed her next to him at dinner but had sat her instead between two women because, as so often happens on mixed courses, the women outnumbered the men.
At Catherine’s request the chairs in the conference room had been set out in a circle. After eyeing each other uncertainly the group seated themselves, with much fiddling of pens, opening of notebooks, shuffling of feet and adjusting of the psychological space around them. Isobel, who usually attended the introductory session to make sure everything went smoothly, always found this a fascinating process and one that had little to do with either the distance between the chairs or the size of the individual. Marnie, for instance, physically the smallest person in the room, looked as though she had circled her chair with an invisible line, daring anyone to invade her boundaries, while the retired schoolmistress looked as though she had spent a lifetime popping in and out of other people’s territory with entirely benevolent intentions but little sense of whether she would be welcome.
‘Room for a little one next to you?’ Isobel heard her asking the Colonel cosily, beads and bangles clanking as she billowed up to him.
‘Ah, um . . . yes of course. Indeed. Delighted,’ he replied, looking alarmed but stoical in the face of danger and leaping politely to his feet. He pulled out the chair she was about to sit on with a gallant flourish, nearly causing her to collapse on the floor.
When everyone was finally settled, Catherine came in with Giles and seated herself in the only vacant chair, smiling warmly at her assembled pupils who eyed her with varying degrees of hope or caution.
‘Well, I’ll leave you all to it,’ said Giles after he had introduced Catherine. ‘Please don’t hesitate to let us know if there’s anything you need. If you press the buzzer on the desk in the hall it will alert one of us that we’re wanted and we’ll come and find you. Breakfast will be from eight to eight forty-five in the dining room. You should each have a timetable in your room but there’s one on the notice board as well. You’ll find the usual assortment of drinks in the bar if you need fortifying after your session. Tea and coffee are always on the house – please help yourselves at any time – but there’s a price list of other drinks on the counter so if you’d just jot down anything else you have in the little book that’s provided, that would be helpful and you can pay at the end of your visit. Have fun and I’ll see you all in the morning. Goodnight.’
‘Now,’ said Catherine, ‘I think we should all introduce ourselves. We’ll go round the circle and I’m going to ask each of you to tell us your name and where you come from and to say something – quite briefly, please – about what you hope to achieve during the next five days and what, if any, experience of writing you’ve had – whether you’ve had, or tried to have, anything published, for instance. It doesn’t in the least matter if you’ve had no experience at all, it’s just helpful for me to know.’
She looked round the room. ‘So . . . as you know, I’m Catherine. I live in London. I used to teach English in a girls’ school but now I’m a freelance journalist and critic, and I do some broadcasting as well. I’ve had six collections of poetry published and also edited a collection of excerpts from the diaries of explorers down the ages and I teach creative writing to mature students which I love doing. I’m constantly humbled and impressed by the talent of my pupils and I’m very pleased to be here with you all in this beautiful place. I hope we’re going to have a really enjoyable and creative time together.’ She looked at the person on her right, a smallish middle-aged man, swarthy of complexion, with hair parted so low on one side that the parting was level with his ear, from which point strands of his dark hair had been carefully plastered across the top of his head in a vain attempt to disguise incipient baldness.
Catherine gave him an encouraging nod. ‘Now it’s your turn,’ she said. ‘Will you carry on next please and tell us about yourself and why you’ve chosen to come on this course?’
‘Well, I’m Stanley,’ said her neighbour, ‘Stanley Heslington, and this good lady on my other side is my wife Winifred, but just call her Win, because everybody always does and if she’s not present we can say we’re in a no-win situation.’ He paused for the laughter which did not come, and then went on: ‘We live near Keighley, in Yorkshire, we’re both retired, we’ve a grown son and daughter who’ve flown the nest, as they say, to follow their own bent, so I’ve got time for my little hobby, which is writing. I used to be in the textile trade but I’ve always had a fancy to write and I’ve had several pieces published in our parish magazine. I also pen a fair number of poems for local occasions – and I get many a good laugh when I recite them in the pub of a Friday night, I can tell you!’ Several people shifted uneasily in their chairs, conscious that they had failed to respond to his first sally and wondering what might be expected from them next. ‘I suppose I’ve always been gifted for words,’ he went on modestly. ‘I’ve written a great little book on local wildlife but I couldn’t get any of the publishers to take it on. Mind you, as I said to Win, it’s their loss, because if I say it myself it would have been of great interest to a lot of people and I think they made a big mistake. But one must move on and now I’ve got a fancy to try my hand at a romance. I reckon I could do just as well as some of these lady novelists that get printed nowadays. I’ve been a bit of a lad in my day – quite a Romeo, as you might say – and I could draw on my own experiences.’ He gave a satisfied chuckle while everyone made unsuccessful efforts to visualise him in this unlikely role. Louisa who had caught Isobel’s eye hastily looked away to stop herself laughing but Stanley Heslington sailed happily on. ‘Then happenstance one day I saw an article on this place here, when I was waiting in the surgery to have my ears syringed out by the nurse – I make a lot of wax you see which is troublesome when I’m listening for birdsong – and when I got home I said to Win, “How about a trip to Bonnie Scotland? We’ll have a go at this writing lark together, dear. Now Win may not be gifted for writing like I am, but I said to her don’t you worry love because I’ll be there to help you through and . . .’
Catherine laid a hand on his arm and gave him her warmest smile. ‘Thank you very much,’ she said. ‘That’s most interesting, but I’m going to stop you there, Stanley, because though it’s lovely that you’ve decided to come on this workshop week together, I do think it’s important that you and your wife should each do your own thing and we’d really like to hear Win speak for herself. I’m going to suggest that you don’t sit next to each other in future sessions and then you can both be free to listen to your own inner voice. Now, Win, your husband has given us an introduction but perhaps you’d like to add something to it?’
Win, a pleasant-looking, apple-faced woman shot Catherine a not unamused look.
‘It’s true I haven’t any writing experience,’ she said, ‘but I’ve always loved reading and used to look forward to English lessons at school. I know it’s a long time ago, but I got quite good marks for my essays then, so I shall enjoy having a go again – so long as I don’t hold the rest of the class up, that is. Maybe like Mr Grant said at supper I’ll surprise myself – and my husband – and turn out to have hidden talents,’ and she beamed engagingly at them all, while her vociferous husband looked not a little put out at this sign of independence and, possibly, unexpected rivalry.
‘Wonderful,’ said Catherine. ‘Thank you very much, Win. Next please?’
If Louisa expected to gather more information about her stylish-looking acquaintance with the limp, she was disappointed. There were no startling revelations from the man who’d been so desperate for a cigarette. He simply said he’d recently decided on a change of direction and thought he’d try his hand at writing. Everyone immediately wanted to know what he had done before but he gave them no clue. Perhaps he’s been made redundant, thought Louisa. If so it didn’t look as if lack of money was a problem – or not yet anyway – but it might account for his less than enthusiastic response at finding someone he knew on the course.
‘I’m just here to learn as much as I can about writing,’ he said, shortly.
‘Could you tell us your name, and whether you’ve ever had anything published or done any writing at all?’ asked Catherine, vaguely recalling that Isobel had mentioned that he hadn’t filled in any of the questionnaire.
He hesitated for a moment and then said: ‘I’m sorry – yes of course. My name’s Christopher . . . Christopher Piper. I live in London. I’ve had the occasional poem published. Nothing much.’
‘Fine,’ said Catherine, easily, ‘thank you too then, Christopher.’
Isobel wondered what significance, if any, there was in his reticence. She thought he looked interesting, possibly the most interesting person in the group, except perhaps the grouchy Marnie who was intriguing too.
The Colonel, who said his name was John, wanted to write a history of his regiment; the retired schoolmistress announced in a breathlessly girlish voice that her name was really Barbara but she did hope they would all call her Bunty because that’s what her friends called her and she just knew they were all going to become the best of chums on this exciting venture. Her dearest ambition was to write stories for ‘little ones’ and she had brought several examples of her work, which she also illustrated, with her.
‘Aren’t we all really still children at heart?’ she enquired hopefully, though looking round the guarded circle of faces about her, Isobel didn’t feel Bunty was getting quite the response she was hoping for, any more than Stanley had.
Morwenna wrote a gardening column for a regional monthly magazine, which, she informed them gloomily, had a decreasing readership and was likely to go out of business soon, unless the newly appointed editor could dramatically increase the circulation; she needed to change her style of writing but hadn’t the faintest idea how to go about it and didn’t expect to be able to manage it anyhow. Her friend, Joyce, a toothy but well-groomed woman with smooth bleached hair and immaculate make-up, looked a much breezier character. She kept a gift shop, which, she said, left her plenty of time during the winter to take up some other occupation, though she had had to get a friend to stand in for her this week, the tourist season having already started. Morwenna had persuaded her to come along. ‘I’ve no idea at all if I can write. I just thought the course sounded fun,’ she said cheerfully.
‘Excellent,’ said Catherine. ‘Fun is just what I hope it will be. A very good reason to try it.’
Isobel admired, as she often had before, the friendly way in which Catherine coped with her very varied students, dealing firmly with potential monopolisers like Stanley but quietly encouraging everyone, no matter who they were or what they were like. It was the third year that Catherine had come to Glendrochatt to run a writing course and places were always much in demand when she was the tutor. She had become a great favourite of the Grants who now regarded her as a personal friend and always looked forward to her visits.
It was Louisa’s turn to introduce herself next. ‘Like Stanley and Win, I come from Yorkshire,’ she said, smiling towards the Heslingtons, ‘though I live a bit further north than they do. I read English at St Andrews and always had vague dreams about writing a novel some day, but time has ticked by and so far I’ve never even started one. I’ve been a PA to a politician for five years but feel I need a complete change for various reasons. I’m at a bit of a crossroads in my life . . .’ Her voice suddenly trailed away. Unaccountably she felt a lump in her throat and tightness in her chest that made it difficult to speak.
‘And the writing?’ prompted Catherine gently. ‘Have you done any at all since university? Might this be the right moment to have a go at the novel?’
Louisa gulped. ‘I . . . I don’t really know. I’m afraid I haven’t got a plot or characters lined up or anything.’
‘Everyone starts in different ways. Let’s just see what happens over the next few days. Was it the idea of writing a novel that brought you here?’
Louisa struggled to speak while Catherine smiled encouragingly. What on earth is the matter with me, Louisa wondered, unused to being inarticulate.
‘Yes, partly,’ she said at last, and then went on in a rush, ‘but it’s also because I’m contemplating big changes in my life and I know I need to face some things that I usually try not to think about.’ She paused again, feeling foolish, and then continued in a steadier voice: ‘I’m on the Glendrochatt mailing list and have always wanted to come on one of their courses. I’ve never had the time before but when I looked at their latest programme and read about this week, I thought perhaps writing might help me to unblock something – but it sounds rather an odd reason.’
